Free to Live: The Utter Relief of Holiness (2 page)

Follow this closely now: God is working with us—correcting, guiding, disciplining—so that we might share in his holiness (whatever that is). Therefore, choose your way carefully, so that whatever is broken in you
might be healed
. Severity is not the point; discipline is not the point. The point is the restoration of your creation. Whatever holiness truly is, the
effect
of it is healing. That’s what it does to a person.

It seems that much of what Christians believe they are called to these days is a cluster of activities that include regular church attendance, Bible study, prayer, giving, concern for justice, and attending the annual men or women’s retreat. Now—what is all that activity
for
? What are those things supposed to do to us, or in us? If it’s not restoring the whole man, it may not be in line with what God is doing. Because that’s clearly what he’s up to. Back to Jesus’ argument with the Pharisees. He says,

Do you hear the offer? Do you see what he is so upset about? They have completely missed the point of what God is up to, what he is after in a person’s life: to heal him as a human being. This is so essential to your view of the Gospel and your own approach to Christianity. Really—it will shape your convictions about everything else.

It might help to contrast this view with some of the other popular options out there. The Self-Help section in Christian bookstores is rather large now (which is a little ironic, because my books tend to wind up there). This approach has been called—not too kindly but not altogether unfairly—therapeutic Christianity. The goal of this movement seems to be to help you get your life working—help you with your marriage or your anxiety or your loneliness or your weight problems. And it is right and it is wrong. Yes, I believe with all my heart that God helps us with all those things; I believe he wants life for us. But when we focus on fixing problems, what seems to be missing is the transformation of our
character
.

And then you have what we might call righteousness Christianity, quite popular in circles that talk frequently of “sin” and “judgment” and “the loss of morality.” A great deal of time and energy here is spent trying to make people behave. And it is right and it is wrong. Of course we’re supposed to live godly lives, but where’s the joy? Where’s the intimacy with God, the “glorious living” that Paul talks about?

Then there’s “truth” or “doctrine” Christianity—these are the folks who write books and preach sermons on who’s really a heretic and why their own position is the only correct position on salvation, or drinking, or God’s sovereignty. The goal in this camp appears to be to ensure correct doctrine in people’s lives. And it’s right and it’s wrong. Of course we should care about the truth. But as the Bible itself warns, you can understand all mysteries and have all knowledge, but if you don’t have love, you’re obnoxious. This is the noisy gong, the clanging cymbal of 1 Corinthians 13. If you hold the correct doctrinal positions but are irritating to be around, you have sort of missed the point.

Lately, the surge is toward “justice Christianity”—intervening to prevent human trafficking or slavery, caring for indigenous cultures or for the planet itself. And it is right and it is wrong. My goodness, yes, of course God cares about justice. But to be frank, it is actually
not
the central theme of the Bible. Christianity isn’t simply a religious version of the Peace Corps.

All of these “camps” are Christianity—sort of. Like elevator music is music—sort of. Like veggie burgers are hamburgers—sort of. Think gas fireplaces, wax fruit, frozen burritos. They look like the real thing, but…

It all comes down to this: What is Christianity supposed to do to a person?

God is restoring the creation he made. What you see in Jesus is what he is after in you. This is a really core assumption. Your belief about this will affect the rest of your life.

Now, why
The Utter Relief of Holiness
?

It may seem strange at first, because I don’t think most folks look at holiness as an utter relief. Hard, perhaps; boring, if we’re honest; necessary, like flossing; a level of spirituality we might attain one day. But a
relief
? Look at it this way: Ask the anorexic young girl how she would feel if she simply no longer struggled with food, diet, exercise—if she simply never even gave it another thought. Ask the man consumed with jealousy how he would feel if he woke one day to discover that all he once felt jealous over was simply gone. Ask the raging person what it would be like to be free of rage or the alcoholic what it would be like to be completely free from addiction. Take the things you struggle with and ask yourself, “What would life be like if I never struggled with this again?”

It would be an utter relief. An absolute, utter relief.

Exactly. Now, in order to get there, you need both wholeness and holiness. You can’t find genuine wholeness without genuine goodness; that’s why the therapeutic Christianity camp seems to be missing something essential. I know a lot of folks who are chasing wholeness, but they don’t seem to be concerned about their holiness. The same holds true for the folks who think wholeness is a distraction, maybe humanistic; they feel the focus needs to be on pursuing righteousness or moral living. And I can promise you, there isn’t a snowball’s chance in hell of you becoming the person God made you to be without the healing of your humanity. You can’t get to holiness without wholeness. The two go together.

I think if we could recover a vision of what holiness actually is, we would be absolutely captured by it. I think we would see it as not only completely desirable, but attainable as well. King David was a man who knew his character flaws, felt the anguish of regret, spent many a tormented night wrestling with his failings. And yet, in Psalm 119, David wrote this:

Have you ever put those two things together—freedom of heart and the passionate pursuit of God’s commands? The two go hand in hand. Genuine holiness restores human beings; restored human beings possess genuine holiness.

Chapter Two

The Compelling Goodness of Jesus

I love this story. It is so unexpected, and funny, and so…whimsical. Here’s this short guy—picture Danny DeVito—who frankly is a bit of a traitor and a swindler. Though a Jew, he has sided with the Roman occupation forces, extracting Caesar’s taxes from his countrymen and skimming a little off the top for himself. Jesus is passing through town; the little man tries to get to the front of the row, but the crowd—they hate tax collectors—shove him back. So he runs ahead of the caravan and…climbs a tree?! In his full-length Armani robe? Why does Zacchaeus find Jesus so compelling? He “wanted desperately to see Jesus.” Fascinating. Apparently, he’s either heard stories about this man—from fellow bill collector Matthew maybe?—or he’s seen him from a distance before, and now he simply must get a closer look.

The next moment is as rich as the Gospels get: Jesus pauses under the tree and looks up. Oh, to have seen the expression on Jesus’ face—the twinkle in his eye, the slight grin behind the serious command. He knows what this is going to do to the little pirate’s world.

Oh, the beautifully disruptive ways of Jesus. Disruptive both for the crowd (“What business does he have getting cozy with this crook?”) and for the little extortionist, too. Zacchaeus’ reaction is so utterly extravagant we never see it coming: “I give away half my savings to the poor.” What? Have you been around money people much? Let me remind you that it is a
fool
and his money that are soon parted; the rich and clever are never separated from theirs. When they do give way to a philanthropic urge, they are always certain to get a tax deduction. On the spot, Zacchaeus cuts his lifestyle, his portfolio, and his retirement
in half
? Then he goes on to promise a total change of life?

Wow.

There was, obviously, something about Jesus, some wonderful quality that compelled people to
want
to be good.

And this is where we must begin our search for holiness. Not with pressure, nor with shame or command. The only lasting change is the kind that seized Zacchaeus, and this comes by way of Jesus. The best thing we can do is push our way to the front of the crowd—or scale a tree—and have a closer look ourselves.
1

If you were to write a history of men—the true history, not the popular one clouded by kings and conquests—you would want to write the story of the
internal
world of men. And a fascinating story it would be, too. What makes men tick? Why do they do the things they do? What is it that truly sets great men apart? Thus far the book has not been written, but if you were to undertake the quest, I think the pressing question would be this one: What can you trust him with? That is the test of any man’s character. Over the ages, the answer appears to be: not much. Certainly not the sirens of power, fame, or pleasure. Men have sold their countries for a night of sex and their daughters for an ounce of heroin. And so I find it intriguing that the Gospels introduce Jesus the man with two events—one public, the other very private.

First, we have his baptism:

Now, to grasp the significance of the moment, you must keep in mind that John the Baptist has taken the lead. It is his revival that has the whole countryside buzzing. Jesus simply shows up one day, gets in line like a carpenter on his lunch break, and lets John dunk him. Then he disappears into the crowd. No fanfare, no changing of the guard. Compare it to a presidential primary, or the Academy Awards—this is not exactly how world leaders typically act. Jesus’
humility
is almost breathtaking.

What follows is even more extraordinary:

First off, this is a backroom offer; this all took place far from Jerusalem, far from any observer. No one needs to know; no one will ever know. The first seduction almost seems innocuous: make yourself something to eat. Jesus is famished and bread isn’t exactly adultery. Oh, the subtleties of the evil one. The issue? When you are famished for anything—love, attention, relief from pain, security—will you continue to trust God or will you take matters into your own hands? “There are always options,” whispers the Deceiver. “No,” replies Jesus. Then the evil one tries overwhelming seduction; surely every man has his price. “No deal,” says Jesus. The third attempt seems truly bizarre, until you see that the enemy has got Jesus’ number—he sees that this man is committed to total trust in his Father. “Prove it,” the devil says, “and jump.” Jesus is immovable.

Why do the scriptures begin the story of Jesus of Nazareth here?

Look at it this way—Jesus is asking you to trust him at a very profound level, trust him with everything that is dear to you, trust him with your own soul. So the witness begins with a revelation of his
character
—genuine humility and unstained integrity. Is this what you expect from your leaders; is this what you assume around election time? It is remarkable. This man’s heart is so good; this is someone we can trust.

In fact, if you begin with the question of genuine goodness, you quickly discover running through every story in the Gospels the shimmering substance of Jesus’ character.

Here’s something I think most people have never seen before. This moment takes place on Easter morning. Jesus of Nazareth has been systematically tortured and then hung by his hands and feet from timbers. He died, and his body quickly laid in a borrowed tomb. But early Sunday morning, the event that changed the history of mankind took place without even a single witness: Jesus was raised from the dead. If it were you, whom would you want to show yourself to first? Part of me says, “Those religious bullies, the oppressors of my people, the ones who sent me to my death—that’ll shock the hell out of them” (which is, of course, exactly what needs shocking out of them). His closest friends come to mind; they are devastated. Wouldn’t you rush to share the good news? Then I think, “No—it would be best to show myself to the crowds still in the city; this is the moment of moments to get the conversions rolling, to start the revolution that will be called Christianity. And of course, there is my mother; she is heartbroken.” Whom does Jesus choose?

He appears first, and privately, to Mary Magdalene:

So much, so very much spoken in just one word, her name: Mary. This is an incredibly beautiful scene. There must have been something particularly sweet and deep in their relationship for Jesus to have chosen her as the first person he wanted to speak to after coming back to life. And it is this—Jesus’ ability to have intimate relationships with single women—that is really striking. His capacity to engage the opposite sex with absolute integrity and utter fearlessness is incredible. We’ve had presidents who couldn’t be trusted on this front for two minutes; it has been the snare of many a pastor as well. As a result, there is a good deal of fear and awkwardness between men and women who are not married to each other. Especially in the Church. But Jesus is showing that it needn’t even be an issue. Wow!

His retinue includes a number of women traveling with him (very, very unusual in that day). Prostitutes throw themselves at his feet. And how about the story of his encounter with the single woman whom he meets by a well. I love this story. She is, shall we say, not exactly strict with her sexual boundaries. Jesus engages her in conversation (which is itself a shocking move; no rabbi would ever have done this). She’s suspicious, defensive, and then…well, she seems to think that Jesus has something else in mind. He senses the shift and says to her, “Go call your husband and come back.” She replies that she has no husband—which is technically true, though she has had five and is currently living with a man. Why does she hide this information? This is a scandalous scene. And I love Jesus’ integrity: he is neither seduced nor frightened. He continues to pursue her heart and eventually wins her to the Kingdom of God.

We are witnessing something here that goes beyond good behavior. This genuine holiness is flowing from deep within; Jesus is saturated with it.

Then there is the question of how a man handles power—fame, popularity, influence. As I mentioned, the Gospels begin not with Jesus but with his cousin John the Baptist; it is John who gets the revival rolling. Then Jesus’ ministry begins to take hold and quickly overtakes and surpasses John’s (which is of course the very thing John
wanted
to happen). It is an awkward moment, however. Watch how Jesus handles it in an overlooked passage from the fourth Gospel:

He just up and leaves? Right when his movement is gaining momentum? This is classic Jesus. As soon as popularity surges in one town, Jesus leaves and heads someplace that is three or four days’ journey away. On Palm Sunday he enters Jerusalem to cheering throngs; that night, he ducks out of town and stays in a humble village with a few close friends. His humility is just remarkable; there is deference here, modesty that is so holy.